


heard them singing for peace (in my confusion I still believe)

by tomas_abe



Category: Supergirl (TV 2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, But a Somewhat Concerned Dick, Gen, Kara being Tired, Snapper being a Dick, Some Discussion of Journalism, Some angst, some song lyrics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-12
Updated: 2017-05-12
Packaged: 2018-10-31 03:04:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10890351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tomas_abe/pseuds/tomas_abe
Summary: Kara hears the grumbling before the man turns the corner.It’s still not enough to prepare her for the sight of Snapper Carr pushinga shopping cart down the baking aisle of whatever grocery store she’s currentlyin.





	heard them singing for peace (in my confusion I still believe)

**Author's Note:**

> _Whoo boy. This got longer than I had in mind._  
>  _First time user so I hope the formatting ain't wonky._  
>  _Unbetad and with minimal editing._  
>   
> 
> _Somewhat inspired by a[@banrions](https://tmblr.co/mTa60meLBQ9nGXUyDZ5_YZQ) post from some time ago. Specifically the post found [here](http://banrions.tumblr.com/post/159960959742/someone-write-a-snapper-teaches-kara-how-to-bake)_
> 
> * * *
> 
>   
> 

Kara hears the grumbling before the man turns the corner.

It’s still not enough to prepare her for the sight of Snapper Carr pushing a shopping cart down the baking aisle of whatever grocery store she’s currently in. 

(In her defense, she's just come off a grueling weekend of non-stop chasing an escaped Fort Rozz prisoner across the desert. Powers nearly gone, she had only just managed to apprehend the criminal somewhere near the Mexican border four hours ago.

With the sun lamps still out of commission from a brawl that had broken out last week between a Yazz and a Jaqaan, Alex had grudgingly agreed to let her go home after debriefing, on the condition that she take it easy for the next couple of days.

The DEO debriefing had ended sixty-nine minutes ago.) 

Halfway on the flight home she had recalled the lack of food in her apartment. And, although takeout sounded divine, her dwindling savings and continued unemployment prompted her to scan for the nearest food market. At the time, the location had not mattered because it was supposed to be just the basics- enough for a couple of sandwiches. 

Now, awkwardly standing by the cornstarch section, sleep deprived and exhausted, watching her former boss grumble his way to the rice flour, she can’t help but curse the decision. 

Although… it seems she hasn’t been noticed yet so maybe she could-

“Danvers?” 

Yep. No such luck. Typical.

A little surprised he had acknowledged her at all, Kara turns to face the man and tries out a smile, hoping it’ll approach her usual levels of cheer. 

(She can’t really handle the indignity of letting the man who fired her think she’s anything less than hunky-dory. Not after a day like today.) 

The smile falters when she sees how thrown he looks by her presence. Or maybe it’s just her appearance; the black uniform provided by the DEO, doing little to hide the grime from her romp in the desert, is a far cry from her usual pastels and skirts. 

“Snapper.” She fidgets. “Um- if you’ll excuse me, I was just buying some- cornstarch! For- for-”

_Urvish_ stew. 

(Not that she could say that. 

Or how days like these left her craving the traditional Krytponian dish. Not because of the taste. No. There existed no way to truly replicate it here on earth. Although she had learned to make a beef, sausage, and vegetable alternative that could approximate the taste. 

A little. 

Enough to remind her of her father’s cooking. Of the way her mother would laugh as he picked her up so she could stir the thick stew and-)

“That’s a terrible brand,” says Snapper. The unexpected comment startles her enough to drop the random box she had just taken from the shelf. Flustered, she stammers out apologies as she bends down to grab it and-

A larger hand beats her to it. Snapper looks at her over his lenses as he straightens out, stare curious but mostly scrutinizing. She coughs awkwardly at the attention and extends her hand for the box. Instead of giving it back, he turns to the shelf and exchanges it for a different brand. After another considering look in her direction, he grabs a second one, passing the first one to her. 

Thing is…

Her control is harder to keep when she’s tired or rattled, and at the moment she’s both, so it’s not surprising to feel the densely packed box bend to a grip she had intended to be gentle. 

Years of habit make her fingers reflexively slacken. Still, she hears it more than feels it as the box slips and- 

Snapper catches it with reflexes quicker than one would expect from a man of his countenance. He looks at the slightly bent cardboard for a second and it seems to spur him into some kind of decision because, next thing she knows, he’s barking out a “Come on Danvers”. 

She hesitates for a second, torn between smarting pride and curiosity. Curiosity wins out and she follows.

///

_The unknown distance_ _to the great beyond_  
_Stares back at my grieving frame  
_ _To cast my shadow by the holy sun_

The market has been playing the same song since she got here. 

(It sounds familiar. Although… she doesn’t know if it’s because she actually knows it or if it has just reached the point where the last couple of repetitions have etched it into her memory.)

She listens harder.

_There’s nothing I can say  
There’s nothing I can do now_  

(It’s unsettling. Not being able to pinpoint whether she has heard it before today. Not being sure reminds- it reminds her of the time after the Black Mercy. Where she sometimes would get pangs of déjà vu that left her… 

doubting. 

Doubting her memories. Doubting the reality of her surroundings.)

She looks at Snapper. 

(He’s real.

Right?)

Snapper Carr walks the same way he edits. 

Purposefully. Plucking items from shelves without even looking at them, throwing them into his cart and grumbling about the front squeaky wheel the whole while. 

_Stay, don’t leave me  
The stars can wait for your sign_

(Question. What is a memory? A recollection of an event? Or a recollection of experiencing an event? 

Follow-up question. As an adult she breathed and she touched and, with every sense at her disposal, she felt Krypton live. Was that real?

As a child she saw, but did not hear or otherwise sense, Krypton implode. Was that real?

She was stuck in the Phantom Zone longer than she lived in Krypton. Real or not real?

Alex Danvers is her sister. 

Kara would die for Alex. Kara has died for Alex? Alex would kill for Kara. Alex will die for Kara? 

Real or not real?

Her name is Kara Danvers. She works at Catco as a reporter- wait. No.

Her name is Kara Zor-El. Her planet Krypton is dying- 

Her name is Supergirl. She saves-

Her name is-

Her name-

Her name is Kara.

Real or not real?)

The song loops around again.

_My spirit moans with_ _a sacred pain_  
_And it’s quiet now_  
_The universe is standing still_

Snapper is fast and efficient but time stretches on without either of them speaking and the store is loud and bright- and the song is looping around again- and-

She finds herself inadvertently focusing on Snapper’s heartbeat. __

(She’s never told anyone, not even Alex, but- she’s known of the presence of other aliens on Earth long before she became Supergirl. 

It was in college. She had been in Starbuck’s when she had heard the rapid heartbeat she usually associated with hummingbirds. Except- it had belonged to a large man standing in line behind her. She had stared hard as he ordered a hot chocolate and tipped generously. Hard enough for him to feel the gaze and turn in her direction. She remembers that his smile had been shy and his voice warm as he introduced himself. 

She had been too afraid to befriend him. 

But… on days when infrared crept into her vision, days where she could taste the carbon dioxide in the air and feel the movement of the ground under her feet. On days like those, when her senses were too stretched and her body too alien. Too ill-fitting. On those days she sought out his heartbeat around campus. 

Hearing him and his hummingbird heart move through the world made her feel… more settled. Less lonely.)

Snapper’s heartbeat is steady and strong, soothing in tempo.

“Danvers. You gonna stand around all day or you gonna help me put this stuff in the trunk?” Snapper asks, terseness dripping from every syllable. 

Kara blinks. Wrenches herself from the staticky haze of _dub-lub_ that has become of her thoughts and focuses on being actively aware of her surroundings.

(That’s a lie too. She’s always aware. She has to be. Constantly updating the map in her head, which is really more of a multidimensional model of the spatial position she occupies compared to- well. Everything. A necessary thing when a step landing too heavy can splinter pavement. When brushing against someone too hard can break bones. When too deep a breath can-)

Not speaking, she gingerly transfers brown paper bags from the cart to the back of Snapper’s older Jetta. Once empty, she returns the cart as Snapper closes the trunk and then she’s turning back to the store, ears picking up that darned song again 

_Goodnight, travel well  
Goodnight, trav-_

“Get in the car Danvers”

She whirls around and catches dark eyes as he leans his arms over the top of the car. 

“Pardon?” she asks, sure she misheard. 

“Get in the car. So I can drive you home,” he says, low but clear, as if speaking to a rattled source. Or one of their more nervous interns. 

(The thought reminds her of what he has done. The job he so carelessly dismissed her from. 

She has tried to move on. Applied to a couple of places but these things can take time and being without Catco- without an environment separate from the suit and the cape… 

It makes her feel less like a person every day that goes by. She can’t stand it.)  

“I’d rather not. I still have to buy some stuff anyways, “she says, voice sounding haughtier than she usually allows it to. 

(The formality of address a long abandoned quirk. Still, there are days she misses the lack of ambiguity that precise formal language delivers. Slang and informality leaves so much open for different interpretations. For misunderstandings. It’s exhausting, trying to get it right. To not stand out.)

If the arched eyebrow is anything to go by, Snapper definitely caught the odd tone. Still, he stays. His unmoving stubbornness gets under her skin and, wishing him gone, she begins to ramble in that way he always hated. On and on about eggs and bread and milk and-

“Danvers.” A firm cut off. “Do you even have your wallet with you?” he asks in a tone that implies the rolling of eyes.

“What? Pfft! Yeah- I- I absolutely do have my wallet. With my money. On my self.”

She doesn’t. 

(Actually, it’s only now that he’s mentioned it that she even thinks to check. But she can’t feel the weight of either her phone or wallet so she must have forgotten them in the DEO.) 

Unfortunately, her bumbling obviously doesn’t convince Snapper. At this point, he looks like skepticism personified.

“Just get in Danvers, it’s too dark for walking,” he says. “Especially for you cheerleader types.” 

He climbs into the car and turns the ignition but remains pointedly idling. Kara sighs resignedly and walks to the passenger door, careful to pull with only the slightest of force. 

(A gross simplification. First there’s the conversion of Kryptonian physics to Newtonian mechanics, the _dramon_ to meter, and don’t forget friction. And the tensile strength of aluminum! Or was it aluminium? Humans and their stupid regional language rules and-)

“So where to?” Snapper asks.

“Pardon?”

“Where do you live?” he clarifies. “One of those hippie hipster millennial complexes near Birch?”

Kara, resolutely facing forwards, can’t help but grimace because riiiight. People tend to shop near where they actually live.

“Um, actually, I live closer to Waterview?” she admits sheepishly. 

“Waterview. Surely you don’t mean the Waterview on the other side of the city?”

“Uh- yeah. That’s the one.”

On the edge of her vision she sees Snapper frown, a flash of- was that concern? (surely not) crossing his face. He opens his mouth but doesn’t speak. A radio commercial is the only sound in the car. The air practically hums from the lingering pause. 

“In this traffic, it’ll take longer than I’m comfortable with considering the milk products in the back.”

So definitely not concern.

“I understand. If you drop me off at the bus stop on-“

He scoffs.

“I’m not dropping you off at a bus stop this late. What do you think I am? An asshole?”

Well…

“Jeez Danvers. Just let me drop everything off at my place then I’ll drive you.” 

“Are you sure? I could-“

At the characteristic glare from over the frames of his glasses, Kara feebly mimes zipping her lips

“I’ll just stop talking,” she says.

“That would be my preference.”

The car becomes silent except for the NPR station coming out of the speakers. Kara closes her eyes and lets the croaky, scratchy voice of Diane Rehm wash over her for the rest of the drive.

///

Kara peers into the bag she had taken from Snapper’s trunk earlier.

Coconut milk and eggs. Yeah, that could do with being refrigerated.

“Umm- may I?” she asks, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the large chrome appliance.

Snapper only offers a grunt, as he continues opening cabinets and putting away his groceries. Kara shrugs, taking it as permission. 

Once done, when she turns back to the kitchen table to get another bag, she notices her former boss staring at her. Kara shifts a little under the scrutiny, suddenly paranoid of having left on some incriminating Super-related item for him to single out. After another second of consideration, Snapper nods to himself and turns to a small portable radio by the sink. The boisterous voice of some radio host drifts out from the device.

_-rock out to Chekhov’s Hangnail, the newest from Martha, the punkest kids in England!_  

The quick guitar riff that follows surprises her. It’s really not the genre she imagined Snapper liking. As the song continues, she commits it and the name of the band to memory so she can share it with Alex later. 

“You know how to bake Danvers?” asks Snapper as he crouches to open a cabinet, rifling through different sizes of pans and pots.

“I um- I dabble in it every so often but only really know the basics.”

“So boxed brownies,” he remarks snidely. 

Well, he got her there. As Snapper rises from his crouch with a large pot between his hands, he throws her a pointed look.

“In my experience, most people can’t really tell the difference between boxed and made from scratch,” she says. Just to be contrarian.

He only scoffs, which yeah, she can imagine him being one of the few able to tell. 

She approaches the counter where Snapper is setting down the pot. The man doesn’t seem bothered about the continued silence as he moves on to the pantry and begins pulling out ingredients. Ground cinnamon, sugar, salt, flour, and- were those sweet potatoes? 

He shoves the bag of potatoes towards her. 

“Give them a wash Danvers. Can’t trust the dirt they’re covered in, I’d rather not eat whatever pesticide’s still on it,“ he says.

She moves on to the kitchen sink and turns on the tap, causing the pipes to groan.

(She can feel the slight vibrations through the palm still resting on the left knob. She can hear the water rushing; can pick up on the slight change in pressure as water occupies more volume. She smiles, still delighted, even years later, in the face of such an ingenious invention.)

As she begins scrubbing gently, she tries to remember if Krypton ever had had working pipes. 

(Doubtful. 

At least not the kind that carried water. The liquid was a rare commodity in her childhood. Bitter in taste from all the chemicals used to purify it of the radiation characteristic of the few remaining springs. 

‘It was the reckless core mining’, she recalls her father whispering to her mother. 

The radiation a side effect from the accelerated fusion happening in Krypton’s core. Powering cities. Creating heat. Causing conduction inside the planet, which in turn, was responsible for the strong magnetic field protecting them from cosmic rays. 

Towards the end, after the field had finally dissipated, they had all been confined to the buildings, an outside stroll a death sentence.)

Shaking off the morbid thoughts, she rinses the last of the potatoes before leaving them to dry on the dish rack. Just in time, it seems, since Snapper catches her attention by motioning to the pot still on the counter. She takes it but remains standing, unsure of what she should do now. 

“The potatoes need boiling,” he says, clearing up the purpose of the pot. As she returns to the sink she notices that, in her previous distraction, he’s managed to whittle the bags on the counter down from six to two. From one he removes a bag of pumpkin, moving to add it to the pile of ingredients he already had out.

“What are you making?” she asks, curiosity getting the better of her, as she waits for the pot to fill with water.

“Cazuela,” he replies curtly.

“Never heard of it,” she admits, undeterred by his shortness.  

“It’s Puerto Rican. A baked dessert. My mother taught me how to make it when I was a kid,” he says. He pauses for a second, hesitating. “Reminds me of home.”

(A flash of envy. How nice must it be? To be able to recreate the taste of your childhood. To be able to recall flavors and the unconcerned freedom of youthfulness. 

She can’t remember the last time she felt like that. As if there were unlimited opportunities without hurt. A sense of knowing adventure was just around the corner, so long as you were willing to be bold and brave enough to seek it. Even back home when she actually  _was_ a child, the looming fate of Krypton cast a shade on everything. It removed so much wonder, caused so many children to grow up too fast.

Her sister, her friends. They think her reckless. 

She doesn’t know how to tell them she’s careful in her risk-taking. Doesn’t know how to say that too much planning ahead rarely works against the threats she faces. She doesn’t know how to tell them that the only time she has truly been reckless and careless in the twelve years she has been on earth was when her thinking was impaired by the red kryptonite. 

Mostly, she’s afraid to confess that some nights she dreams of the freedom the mind-altering substance made her feel. 

That she sometimes aches for the want of it.)

She feels water overflow around the edge of the pot, dampening her hands. It helps clear her head enough to remember that-

“I thought you were from Metropolis,” she blurts out. She winces and quickly pours out excess water in an attempt to mask her awkwardness. 

“I moved to Metropolis when I was twenty-two for college. Fresh out of the Army,” he says. A quick glance shows him approaching with the pumpkin and a couple of plates.

“Huh. I didn’t know. Do you miss it?” she asks, trading places with him so she can set the pot on the stove whilst he begins washing the pumpkin.

“The army, Metropolis, or Puerto Rico?”

“All of them, I guess,” she says.

“The army, never. Metropolis, rarely. Puerto Rico, often”

“Do you visit? Do I just throw the potatoes in?”

“According to my mother, not as often as I should. And you need to peel them first. There should be paring knife in the drawer on your right,” he says. 

“My foster mother says the same thing about my sister and me,” she admits, opening said drawer.

“Must be a mother thing then.”

They fall silent as she finds the knife and starts peeling.

_It might seem that we lost battle. It might seem that we lost the battle. But no one wins the war._

///

“Can I ask you something?”

“This about why I fired you? Cause you know why that happened Danvers.”

His tone is dismissive enough to make her fists clench. Stood next to the cooling potatoes and pumpkin chunks it had… not slipped her mind per se, but been easy to ignore. 

That they didn’t much like each other. 

Still, the question has been in the back of her mind for a couple of weeks now. Growing in intensity the more she reads in the news concerning the alien kidnappings. 

“I don’t, actually,” she says. “I mean. I know you fired me for breach of contract. And- whatever that’s fine. I just. I thought about it a lot. After the whole- y’know. And- we could have published! 

The article I mean. 

If you really were against putting it on print, we could’ve put it up on the website. I know you wanted the story verified. But I also know every news outlet has done breaking news before totally verification. Even Catco has done it. I just- why were you so against the article running?” she asks. Her voice comes out small. 

(When imagining this conversation her voice had always been strong. Her stare direct and unwavering. Now she keeps her eyes down, looking at the vegetables instead. The reality of her cowardice burns somewhere in her chest.)

“You’re thinking about it all wrong,” says Snapper, inflection unchanging. “It’s a different situation. Usually that kind of unverified reporting only happens during a conflict or disaster where a lot of information is being transmitted in real time. It is difficult to verify if not on the ground. I mean, if it is important enough and comes from a trustworthy source sometimes journalists take the risk, but it’s a risk most are unwilling to take.“ 

He passes her a bowl. When she looks at him in askance, he mimes a mashing motion with a fork, which he then passes to her. She sets it down carefully in favor of transferring part of the potatoes and pumpkin to the bowl. 

“I still don’t get it,” she admits. “That sounds incredibly similar to what I gave you. What’s the difference?” 

He takes a second to think. Mulling it over.

“How many times did you hear me say that, when reporting on something you weren’t bodily present for, you need to look for witnesses?” he asks.

Too many to count. It got to the point where even Peters, reserved and professional to the extreme, would roll his eyes at the repetition.

“Often,” she says grudgingly. The bowl is half-full and there’s still more vegetables in the pot. Cautiousness wins out and she stops adding more. 

The fork is cool between her fingers. 

She experimentally presses it against the soft chunks. The metal doesn’t give and the bowl doesn’t break under her grip so she repeats the motion.

“Exactly. And why look for witnesses? Even in cases where you already have a couple of sources?” he asks expectantly. 

“To get multiple perspectives on what happened. It sharpens the event into focus,” she recites, the entire phrase familiar on her mouth. She presses the fork against a chunk of pumpkin and watches the rectangle deform under the force behind the prongs. 

“Exactly. And that, Danvers. That’s the big difference,” he says. “You had no witnesses. No one had seen or heard anything about alien disappearances until you. And I have a policy that goes: don’t rely on a thinly-sourced rumor. No matter the origin.”

The fork bends. She looks back towards Snapper but he seems to not have noticed, too occupied with opening a can of cream of coconut. She straightens the bent utensil as inconspicuously as she can. 

She takes a deep breath. Focuses on the radio,

_Now that we’re back from commercials-_

“But it wasn’t a rumor. It was information from a credible source. Which you could have passed on transparently. Or with the warning that there were things you had yet to know, being upfront about not having had a chance to thoroughly vet everything, or with full disclosure of where the information came from,” she says, unwilling to let the issue go.

“You mean a blonde wearing a cape?” he asks. Judgment colors his tone.

“I mean a person who’s knowledgeable on the subject and has a history of credibility,” she retorts.

“That’s a reductionist way of thinking and you should know better Danvers. Accuracy is important and a second source is a must. What if Supergirl had been wrong and Catco published the article? Think about how it’d look?”

“Oh so now it’s about reputation and image?”

The vegetables are smushed into an orange paste. She breathes in, sharper than intended, through her nose.

_-for all you alt-rock lovers out there-_

“Don’t be naive. It’s always about reputation and image. You think the Prophet got famous only because of Superman? No! It had a long history of responsible verified journalism behind it. How can you trust a news outlet that reports erroneous news?” he asks. There’s exasperation present in the way she can hear the hard scrape of him toweling his hands dry, pulling at the cloth rougher than needed. __

“But it wasn’t erroneous news,” she says.

Snapper grazes her elbow with his hand. The touch so light even she can barely feel it. She steps back from the bowl. Keeps backing up until her hip hits the kitchen table. Watches as he scoops out about a third of the can to mix with the paste. 

Tries to let go of the frustration hardening her jaw.

__

_-they’re what I would call an industrious band, constantly on tour-_

“In hindsight, no, it wasn’t wrong. But at the time there was no way to know. Not without verification,” he says, interrupting the uneasy silence.

“No way to know,” she repeats in an incredulous tone. “You didn’t think Supergirl was being truthful?”

“My personal feelings were irrelevant to the decision.”

“Were they? You say you needed verification but then you placed the onus of providing such sources on Supergirl herself. Is it not a reporter’s job to investigate further? Did you have no ability to go to your own sources?“

“Not when I had nothing to go on. A confidential list stolen from an undisclosed organization is hard to verify when you don’t even have a name. Yes, a reporter’s job is to investigate further. But guess what? It wasn’t my article. It was yours. You were the one investigating and thus, the onus-" Snapper practically snarls the word, "of verification was yours.”

_-and again, thanks for listening to WQRS, home of the rock and land of the roll-_

“As was the burden of timeliness,” she argues heatedly. “People were disappearing. I did what I could and yet-“ her voice cracks. More from emotion than strain. “You were my editor. My boss. You were supposed to guide me. To help.”

“I did help you. I met your source. I was willing to use my contacts to dig deeper if only I had a starting point. I did guide you. I was very clear on my expectations. You knew what you had to do. I did what I could as well. That you needed me to coddle you is reflective of you not me.”

_-by Pinegrove… Visiting! Enjoy._

Her anger rises and rises until she can feel its red edges creep onto her brow. The intensity of the feeling startles her. 

Scares her. 

Enough to make her pause. She focuses on her feet and tries to loosen her muscles and deepen her breaths. 

_I’m spectral for days on end these days_

She thinks of the dark of the Phantom Zone.

(There were more moments of wakefulness than she usually admits to when asked about the Zone. 

She doesn’t like thinking about it. 

Tries to forget the feeling of being trapped in stasis as her pod hurtled through inter-dimensional space. Unable to move, unable to tell time, unable to cry. 

Unable to scream. 

She hates that sometimes- sometimes she still feels the Zone in her mind. Even before the red kryptonite and the Black Mercy and the Dominator mind hijacking.

Sometimes she looks down and instead of the ground she sees that unforgiving endless void and she has to sit because walking feels like falling without a cape. 

Sometimes she stares out her window and can see _Aethyr_ ’s dust whales drifting between National City’s skyscrapers. 

Sometimes she sees a stranger and can see The Oversoul’s grinning visage under their skin, beckoning her back to its domain.

Real or not real? 

She remembers her mother telling her about youthful misadventures during her time as diplomat caused by their people’s lack of psychic prowess. But on some days she doubts the stories. She _has_ to doubt. Because if not a latent psychic connection to the Zone? Then the only other option is that maybe- maybe the Zone _broke_ something in her and-

Real or not real?) 

Her anger abates. She looks up and catches Snapper staring with concern before he buries it under a disgruntled look.

“You mind adding the flour while I grease the pans?” he asks.

She nods and moves towards the counter where Snapper set the flour on earlier. He opens the oven door and takes out a couple of cake pans before retreating to the sink to rinse them. 

“How much flour do I add?” she asks once she’s in front of the mixing bowl.

“A cup,” he says.

“And the cups are?”

“Drawer by your left elbow”

“Thank you.”

She sets to work.

_Will you still be there for me?_

///

“Could you slice some of the almonds?”

_You know what? I’m reeeally feeling this hardcore kick you requesters have got me on. Want another soul-crushing song? I’ve got youuuu! Prepare for the angst. This is Waiting Room. By Fugazi._

“Sure. How thin do you need them?”

“Pretty thin”

_Everybody’s moving, moving, moving, moving  
Please don’t leave me to remain_

(What will become of you? __

With friends busy, having fullfilling careers and relationships and a sense of direction. 

Lucy in Washington fighting lawmakers and lobbying for alien rights on behalf of the DEO. Cat gallivanting around somewhere. Diving into the unknown. James answering his calling as Guardian. Lena turning her family’s company and legacy around. Winn blossoming in his tech roles. M’Gann causing dissent and revolution amongst her people. J’Onn settling into his identity as alien and leader. 

Even Mon-El, breaking away from his casual Daxamite arrogance and strengthening the bonds he’s formed within the local alien community)

“They’re done”

“Good good. You still got the bowl with the potatoes and pumpkin?”

“Yeah.”

“Add the almonds. And whatever’s left of that bottle of ground cinnamon. Oh. And a pinch of salt”

“Got it” __

(And you? What will become of you?)  

_Ah, come on and get up_

///

Four songs have come and gone, the oven has been preheated and the finished mixture has been poured onto the pans. 

Snapper and her are leaning against the kitchen table, arms crossed, both staring at the oven. 

Finally, he sighs.

“Listen kid. You’re partly right. I refused to let you off easy and prioritized your journalistic growth. I could have green lit the article with what little we knew. But Danvers, you have to understand. If I had let you start cutting corners then, you’d never stop,” he says wearily. 

“So you thought that giving me a lesson on journalism ethics was of paramount importance and what- screw the aliens?”

“No. I was thinking of them too. I’ve worked with refugees before. I have seen how damaging reactionary news can be to their communities. I needed to be sure we were accurate,” he says. 

He loosens. Uncrosses his arms and rubs a hand over his face. When he speaks, his tone is gruffer, as if choked by emotion. 

“I thought you resourceful. I thought you stubborn and clever,” he admits.

Kara feels tears prick at the corners of her eyes. Refuses to look at him.

“I believed you could do it right. That you could do both: find a second source and warn the aliens. Accuracy and timeliness. I believed in you Danvers,” he says. His expression hardens. “Then you went and proved me wrong in the most insulting way possible.” 

Kara tenses at his words. Can practically feel her muscles lock in place as she keeps her eyes on the oven. Snapper stares at her for a long minute. 

“I mean a blog post? Really? How was a blog post from some rookie reporter going to save the aliens huh?“

She smiles weakly. “It’s not really a blog, more like a place where I can link all my articles. I was hired on as just a stringer remember? When I started, I asked around and people agreed that I needed to have a separate place where I could build readership and connect the articles I write across different platforms and outlets. It made sense. So I did it. Turns out I have a surprisingly large readership,” she admitted. “My Luthor interview series is pretty popular.” A pause. “I’m sorry I went over your head but… I felt like time was running out.” 

“Why would you think that? I just don’t get it. What weren’t you telling me? Why were you so desperate to get the information out?”

“I know you thought my actions irresponsible but- You have to understand that the alien immigrant experience is different from its human counterpart. They leave their homes for similar reasons but once here- there is no support system. Not really. They arrive to earth and the first thing they have to do is hide. They’re isolated from humans. Heck, they’re isolated from each other. Alien communities are fractured even in the same city. Wary, untrusting, always afraid of discovery. 

For god’s sake even Superman and Supergirl, the most iconic aliens out there- We don’t know their real names. They’re unwilling to share. And is it any surprise? When multiple aliens can disappear and no one reports on it? When one of them comes forward regarding these disappearances and still people hesitate to publish. Giving so much more weight to the risk of inaccuracy than their word, which has never been false. At least not in previous dealings with the very same publication that so reaps the benefits of having access to their first-hand accounts.” 

She takes a deep breath. Tries to reign in the outpouring of feelings. Talking like this is dangerous for so many reasons. She hunches further. Out of the corner of her eye she sees Snapper turn his whole body towards her. 

It’s probably the first time she’s seen him completely place his attention on her. 

The though incenses her further.

“What I knew was that alien hangouts were dead quiet. People knew something was wrong but no one knew exactly what. Sources I had interacted with before were nowhere to be seen. They’re good people. When other aliens were railing against the Registration Act, calling it a front for registration, they were stepping forwards anyways,” she struggles to keep her tone even. 

Snapper’s attention remains unwavering. 

“They stepped forwards knowing it was a danger. Knowing they most likely wouldn’t see the benefits of them doing so. Not in their lifetime at least. They registered because they believed it was the first step towards a more inclusive future. They registered because they had hope. And it was these hopeful people who were being taken from the streets. When Supergirl confirmed people’s suspicions of what was happening it was as if something clicked into place. 

You talk about verified truth being the pillar of ethical journalism? Well, what about them? Where are the ethics in leaving them uninformed? No, I needed to warn them. But when I tried to do so- 

It was like you didn’t have my back. Like you didn’t really believe what I was saying.  
So I got you Supergirl but it wasn’t enough. I didn’t have a solution for the second source and people were disappearing and- I’m sorry for disappointing you. 

I’m sorry I let you down. But, honestly, I’m mostly sorry about the fact that, in the entire time I worked for you- I never felt like you supported me.  
You say you didn’t want to coddle me. And I get that. I do. But, at what point does not coddling equal never showing any indication of possible regard?  
There was a little constructive criticism and a compliment or two couched in insults. But mostly, it was you being an ass. 

Even Ms. Grant had her moments where she was kind in her mentorship. You never let me feel anything less than the spoiled interloper you saw me as.“

Finally, finally, she turns towards him. She feels terrible. Exposed and raw and vaguely embarrassed by her outburst. 

His brows are pulled together. He’s speechless. His mouth is open but no sound comes out until-

“Danvers. Kara-“

The way he says her name grates against the nerve endings of her jaw. Similar to the scratching of a tip-less pencil against cardboard. 

“I think the oven time’s up,” she says, interrupting him. 

She doesn’t want to hear it.

///

The dessert cools in relative silence. 

_This next song was requested by Tómas Guillén who, and I quote, ‘dedicates this to all you folks who’ve lost a loved one’. Without further ado… Touché Amoré’s Flowers and You-_

“Could I use your washroom?” she asks.

“Right. Um, yes. Second door down the hall,” he says.

She very nearly flies in her haste to get away from the tense kitchen. Once in the bathroom she leans against the sink and extends her hearing. Searching for- 

There.

Alex’s voice is a familiar sound. Her heartbeat a comforting rhythm. She loses herself in the sound of her sister working in her lab. Alex is humming along to the hard beat of a song coming from the lab computer’s speakers.

_I’m homesick and_ _living in the past_  
_Seemingly unfazed and strong if anyone asks_  
_I’m keeping appearances with white lies_  
_With a levee set for my heavy eyes_

The song echoes oddly in Kara’s ears, as if hearing it on top of- 

oh. 

She lets out a breathless giggle. Who would’ve guessed? Her sister and Snapper listen to the same station. 

She takes another deep breath. Centers herself. Listens to the ebb and flow of Alex's voice. Keeps breathing until the black edges of the Zone disappear from her peripheral vision. 

(Do the Kryptonians trapped in Fort Rozz see the Zone too? Has she doomed the last of her kind to an eternity of darkness? 

Question. What is a Kryptonian without light? 

Lost. The answer is lost.)

She sends a prayer to Rao.

(The temples burned with her people.

And she can’t help but wonder… what is a god with no believers?

What is the fate of those who pass when there is only one living being praying for their safe journey?

What does it mean? Being the last devotee to a dead religion. What does it mean?)

_I took inventory of what I took for granted  
And I ended up with more than I imagined_

///

By the time she reenters the kitchen she finds it clean. Snapper is collecting his coat and keys. When he motions towards the door she follows wordlessly. 

The scent of cinnamon lingers.

///

_-White Lung. Now these pals are veterans. Tried and true. And with their best album to date, I dare you to not break out the air guitar when hearing their newest hit… Hungryyyyy!_

NPR had been switched to the same station that had been on in the kitchen. Other than her sharing her address, the drive has gone by without conversation. She’s thankful for the noise. Especially since being tired makes silences uncomfortable, nothing to distract from the cacophony of the city's sounds until her ears are ringing and her head is aching.

_You are never safe from yourself_

She closes her eyes 

(-and tries not to think on the future. 

Not whilst she’s still unemployed and getting her ass handed to her by some backwater hick from Korbal. Not whilst Jeremiah is still missing and Lillian is still at large. Not whilst she’s vulnerable and achey and getting pity rides from the ex-boss she has disappointed.) 

_The star will melt_

(Idly, she wonders what her parents would think. 

Should she even care? Should their opinion matter, what with her father apparently being an isolationist prick a la General Lane and her mother a terrible adjucator who believed that convicting drug smugglers and mass murderers to the same punishment was, in any way, fair or just.)

_And I know everyone fakes for you_

The road is smooth and the car is warm and Kara is just so tired.

She sleeps.

///

Snapper rolls to a stop in front of her building. She stares out the window a moment longer, trying to figure out what to say to the man. 

“Thank you,” she settles on.

He gives a curt nod and she lingers for a second before opening the car door. 

He doesn’t speak.

She closes the door gently and walks away. Halfway to the entrance she hears her name being called. She trots back to the car, leaning a bit into it through the window Snapper had rolled down to call for her. 

“Here,” he says gruffly. A Tupperware is thrust in her direction. 

She takes it slowly, feeling the warmth of the dish seep into her hands. 

“Thank you,” she says softly.

“Just try not to wander the city too late Danvers.”

///

She’s still standing in the same spot by the time Snapper’s car recedes completely from view.

///

She wakes after twilight. 

Chest still heaving from the terror of dreams now forgotten, she pads into the living room, past the couch where Alex is sleeping, then moves on to her kitchen. She fills a glass from the tap. Tries to ground herself in the slight metallic taste of the water. 

(Her hearing picks up music coming from the apartment below hers. An engineering grad student. With a worse sleeping schedule than hers, if she remembers correctly.)

She’s still unsettled. 

_I could not get_ _through September without a battle_  
_I faced death_  
_I went in with my arms swinging_

The mild sense of paranoia that has been doggedly following her lately prompts her to do a sweep of the apartment. Her eyes land on Alex, now propped up so she’s sat on the couch. Staring back quietly with a dark worried gaze.

Kara sits heavily on one of her kitchen stools and buries her head in her arms, tired still. She hears Alex stand and approach her slowly. Her sister hovers besides her, not touching but there.

(That, more than anything, is what allows her shoulders to relax from the tense position she had them in.)

_I’m still flesh_

She feels Alex move away for a moment. Hears her rummage in her drawers and move to the pantry before returning to her side. 

Something thuds as it lands on the table in front of her. 

Her eyes open to Snapper’s cazuela. Alex offers one of the forks she’s holding, face open and smile soft. Kara’s bare feet tingle from the slight vibration of her neighbor’s music. The sweet cinnamon smell coming from the dish causing little bursts of white to appear behind her eyelids.

She gives in. __

_My chest still draws breath  
I hold it_

The first bite warms her toes.

_I’m buoyant  
there’s no end_

The night stretches on.

**Author's Note:**

>  _First posted on[tumblr](https://tomas-abe.tumblr.com/post/160396838613/heard-them-singing-for-peace-in-my-confusion-i) May 7._  
> 
>  
> 
> _Let me know what you think._  
>  Probably not as much baking as OP had in mind (nor actual teaching of journalism ethics). Hope it was still ok.
> 
>  
> 
> _Also! If you're a fan of rock the tracks I got the lyrics from are all pretty sweet:_
> 
>  
> 
> _The Killers - Goodnight, Travel Well_  
>  _Martha - Chekhov’s Hangnail_  
>  _Pinegrove - Visiting_  
>  _Fugazi - Waiting Room_  
>  _Touché Amoré - Flowers For You_  
>  _White Lung - Hungry_  
>  _The Microphones - The Glow, Pt. 2_
> 
>  
> 
> _Title from Crowded House's song "You Are the One to Make Me Cry"_


End file.
